


mirror image

by Anonymous



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and makes a confession, falk answers, the detective contemplates the different uses of mirrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Emma has been thinking a lot about Falk recently.--“And if I wanted to know you, in return?” His reply is soft, almost lost in the whisper of the fog, but the message is clear enough in the way he looks at her, without the need for words.“I would leave my window open.”His calm facade cracks as one corner of his mouth quirks up, and she can see the flash of a sharp, curved canine. “I would not use the window.”
Relationships: Detective/Falk (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Falk/Female Detective
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29
Collections: Anonymous





	mirror image

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilyofFandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyofFandoms/gifts).



These meetings have been going - well. Almost too well, the cynical side of Emma wants to point out - but it’s an aspect of herself she’s been working on, learning to trust in the instincts of those around her, even if her own warn otherwise.

But the state of the negotiations is not what is on her mind at the moment.

As the rest of the group files from the room, Emma lingers, keeping herself busy as she collects the paper files they’d brought in for consultation, the assorted photographs of locations that had been selected for the maa-alused relocation - beautiful, remote places untouched by civilisation.

Pausing beside the heavy wooden desk that had been brought in for the negotiations, her fingers drumming out an absent rhythm against the varnish, she considers the mirror, standing blank and empty in the corner of the room.

“Emma,” A soft voice calls from the doorway, and she turns to find Nat lingering on the threshold, a smile on her lips as she leans back against the frame. Her eyes are warm, objectively curious as she watches her, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of her jeans.

“Do you need a minute? I can ask the rest of the team to wait for you.” 

“Thank you, Nat; this won’t take long. You don’t need to stay,” she adds, seeing the shift in Nat’s posture, as if she’s about to make her way back into the room. “I just - need a moment.”

Nat hesitates, her long form swaying on the threshold, her warm brown eyes conflicted as they meet Emma’s.

“I understand,” she says, her words soft, and she means it, with an earnest honesty that’s as confusing as it is humbling, and she shifts on her feet, her dark hair swaying with the movement. She doesn’t move further into the room. “But… know that I am here, if you need to talk.” 

There’s more she wants to say, Emma can tell - she can see it in her hesitation, in the flicker of concern that crosses her delicate features, crinkling the perfect arch of her brows. 

Out of all the members of the team, it’s Nat that’s always taken the time to _ask_ and it’s this aspect of her, this kindness, that she appreciates, deeply. All of this - the entanglement of her life with that of the agency, the target on her back - is not her fault. 

She does her best to reassure her, giving her as warm a smile as she can muster. “Thank you.” 

Nat gives a soft smile in return, before she leaves the room.

\--

Once Emma is sure she is alone, she takes a long, slow breath, steadying her resolve, before moving to the mirror.

Standing in front of it, she can see that the glass is as clear as it had appeared before the meeting. She can see herself - and the signs of strain that have been chasing her these last few weeks, the shadows deep under her eyes, and she understands why Nat had been hesitant to leave - understands the gentle concern that had creased her features when she’d offered to stay.

It’s not something she wants to linger on, and so she shoves the image away. That’s not the reason why she is here.

Emma has been thinking a lot about Falk recently.

He’s hard to forget - especially after the attack on the Warehouse.

Her memories of that night are vivid: the explosion of glass as every window in the room had exploded inwards, the way Nat had taken her into her arms to shield her from the worst of it, shredding her favourite leather jacket in the process.

She remembers the confrontation, and she remembers _him_ , the way he’d stood in front of his own kin, ferocious, angry, vengeful - for the damage that had been done, the smoking wreckage of his home.

She remembers the way he’d hesitated at the last moment, hand outstretched, on the threshold of the mirror; the way his piercing, dark stare had met hers across the room, and she’d thought that she’d gotten through to him, convinced him to stay.

(She hadn’t.)

Stepping closer to the mirror, she examines the frame, simply crafted and stained a deep, dark chestnut; takes in the reflection of the darkened conference room behind her. 

She has wondered about the extent of the maa-alused’s abilities - just how far their manipulation of reflections can go, and if there are other tricks they can use to achieve their goals (the covered surfaces in her apartment can attest to that).

Considering the appearances of the maa-alused leader, how they’d always been carefully timed - when she was alone, or close to it, in her apartment, the other members of unit bravo absent - she imagines they likely offer other uses than portals. Perhaps a window.

It’s that knowledge that has motivated the decision she’s making now.

“I dreamed of you last night.” 

It’s a confession, almost a question, as she watches the glass, and she thinks she sees the image shift. 

It’s just a flicker, a sense of vibration that could easily be dismissed as a trick of the light, but it sparks a reaction, her heart rate kicking up in her chest, gooseflesh prickling across her skin as she takes a breath, steadying herself before she continues.

“I dreamed of the night your home was attacked. I dreamed I was there, and I could see the tents burning - I could _see_ the men as they attacked your people - and I was powerless to stop them.”

“I wanted to help you.” Another flicker, more obvious this time, a shudder across the surface of the glass, and she grows sure that she is no longer alone, that someone, at least, on the other side is listening - and she hopes it is him, and not one of his delegates.

Her resolve wavers for a moment, but she swallows, hard, and forces herself to continue. ”But I was too late. And I woke up.”

“And I knew I wanted to know you.”

Her reflection shudders again, before a sharp onslaught of cold hits her, forcing her to step back from the frame as the glass is obscured by a wave of fog, the image swallowed by the swirling mass of it within the frame.

Through the swirls and eddies of fog, she can see Falk, standing in a small tent decorated with bundles of herbs and flowers. It’s Sanja’s tent, she realises, recognising the details - and it’s empty aside from him, the warm and welcoming space cold in her absence. A pang of guilt at the memory - if she had been faster, perhaps the woman herself wouldn’t still be resting in the care of the Agency’s medical facilities.

His expression is unreadable, but his stare pierces through her, burning with an intensity that leaves her breathless, and sends her heart tumbling into a frantic pace within the confines of her chest.

“And if I wanted to know you, in return?” His reply is soft, almost lost in the whisper of the fog, but the message is clear enough in the way he looks at her, without the need for words.

“I would leave my window open.”

His calm facade cracks as one corner of his mouth quirks up, and she can see the flash of a sharp, curved canine. “I would not use the window.”

There’s a strange tension in the air that’s nothing like the one that had accompanied them in the room earlier, and she reaches out to the frame, her fingertips hovering above the glass. She can feel the cool whisper of fog against her palm as the surface of the mirror shifts beneath it, and she sees him move, hand pressed against the glass - until it passes through to meet hers.

His touch is chilled, slightly wet, and she can smell the earth on him, running water, the fresh scent of a mountain stream.

A flicker of movement drags her attention back to the mirror as he leans forward, and she can feel the soft brush of his hair against the inside of her wrist, the soft rush of his breath against her face.

His other hand traces her features, nails soft against the curve of her cheek, trailing down the line of her throat, golden irises bright and burning as they follow the movement, before they flicker back up to meet her gaze. 

“Is this also something you’ve visited in your... dreams?”

She shivers at the soft caress, his words as soft as his touch, holding his stare.

“Perhaps.”

His eyes are burning as they hold hers, his palm settling at the base of her throat. She should feel more vulnerable than she does, his thumb at her pulse, the curve of his talons sharp against her skin.

He leans in, close enough that she can feel the heat of him, his voice a low murmur in her ear.

“If you would care to share the details, _perhaps_ the reality could surpass the dream. _”_

She can feel the cool rush of his breath against her skin, her breath caught in her throat as he pulls back, slowly, golden irises burning.

The moment is interrupted by the sound of voices outside the door - she freezes, glancing back as a pair of agents - young, werewolves, from the sound of them - make their way through the hall.

When she looks back to the mirror, he’s gone.


End file.
